"Gimme the girl that's beautiful, without a trace of makeup of on,Barefoot in the kitchen, singing her favorite song.Dancing around like a fool, starring in her own little show,Gimme the girl the rest of the world, ain't lucky enough to know."~Joe Nichols, Gimme That Girl

...not saying that this is me,but Nichols sure nailed it whenhe wrote the barefoot in thekitchen line!

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

I've missed posting on this blog. Missed the words, and the
pictures, and the comments. But life is full of extensive and
unexpected surprises. Which can be enjoyable, or stressful. Or so
mind-blowing that you love 'em and hate 'em all at once.

Sometimes, I get really funky and nerdy about life. I
over-analyze food, or eat things of less-than-desirable origin. Those
are obviously the two extremes. However, there are times when I just
want to go out and eat. For the fun of it. Some place where I don't
have to think or worry about money. Just to be pampered with candle
light, noisy cooks working hard to satisfy my hungry tummy and
expectations, and to be so happy at the end of the evening that I can
barely get out that contented sigh. Always teeter-tottering back and
forth between my love for cooking, and my love for exploring the
culinary world...

A while ago, I persuaded my patient Papa to dress up, fire up
his truck, and drive down to Glen Ellen. And we ate at the Fig Cafe. We
were seated by a perky hostess. Not long after, Papa and I met Hannah,
who was our waitress for the night. Hannah was a sparkly soul with
quick intuition and easy manners. She had excellent eye contact, the
patience of Job, and perceptive ways of making suggestions. I would
return just to see Hannah again, and have her serve the table once more.

The Fig Cafe is similar to a rustic French cafe, but with a bold
Sonoma County flair...when you eat there, and see the paintings on the
wall, you will know what I mean. Papa asked me to analyze the cafe for
him; I think that it was amusing for him... I'm actually going to
with-hold my observations, my dear readers', because those notes I
scribbled have been saved for my culinary memoirs. However, I'd be more
than happy to walk you through our dinner!

First up, we ordered a cheese plate, with a side of spiced almonds.
We chose our three cheeses...a biting, ripe cashew-colored cow cheddar
with a rough texture and intrusive finish. Not for the timid palate.
Next, there was a musty goat cheese...young, not properly aged, with an
immature mold. I loved the goat's milk flavor, but the improper youth
of the mold was saddening. Then we had a stunning cow's milk brie:
creamy, supple, rich in butterfat, with a gorgeously aged mold. The
flavors devastated my tastebuds...unbelievable. Extremely disappointed
in the coppa. It was bland, limp, and dry. I have had amazing imported
coppa...but this was not the occasion. The accompanying apple slices
were crisp, fresh, and juicy. Tart, too! The olives didn't blow my
mind...I wanted savory, garlic, herbs, olive oil, abundance, but there
was nothing to criticize, and nothing to praise. The pressed fig and
almond cake wedges were a dark sweetness with hints of molasses and
rosemary. Extremely enjoyable. Having never had caper berries before, I
was tickled pink to try them. Lively flavor.

Papa had a bowl of lovely carrot soup. Creamy, gentle, with
hints of ginger, mineral-rich salt, and oh-the-irony! cilantro as
garnish...the one herb he loathes. He ate the cilantro, all the same.
With a slight grimace of course.

Then he had a chickpea panisse cake,
dark triangular shapes, with soft cumin tones.

I had a pan roasted half
chicken with an unassuming potato-fennel hash, perfectly-blanched
spinach, and an ashy, rotund romesco sauce.

My fries never came out-
but then we weren't charged for them either! Tarragon aioli: that's
what came with the fries, and that is why I was ordering them...just to
taste that aioli. Oh, shucks.

But life and dinner didn't end with the entrées. Dessert was a
rich and unearthly salted caramel ice cream. Papa and I shared a bowl
of this texturally strong, and flavor-balanced sweet treat.

The
spearmint sprig on top was boring. A coarse, flaky maldon salt would
have knocked my socks off, with a fresh floral adornment of
petals...darnit, I just gotta stop dreaming.

Times spent in company of my parents', over occasional special
meals such as the one shared with Papa are precious. I can't recreate
or replace those times, but I can make sure that they happen every now
and then. Although Papa is not much of a talker, I enjoyed just looking
up, and seeing his smile, or hearing him hmmm in delight. Or trying to
figure out his face when I told him about my irrepressible desire to
scribble a note or two on our brown paper tablecloth covering. I didn't
think it was that loony, Papa. Next time, will you join me, please?

These days have been topsy-turvy and crazy-busy, but I love
little moments. They mean the most, they hold the rarest, and they
clench my heartbeat. Often, I become so wrapped up in work or school,
or self, that I forget to cook for my family. This grieves me. And
when that sense of loss and inadequacy overwhelms me, I cannot cook for
guests, for friends, or even for coworkers'. All I know is that I need
to enter that kitchen, and create something for my family. There are
times when I wonder about why I cannot bring myself to cook for
strangers. I think that I know.

Food is an intimate expression of the soul. It is a raw and
vulnerable exposure of love and trust. It begs to nourish, and yearns
to fulfill. And to fill another's hunger with such an undeniably
valuable gift- why, that is to offer up one's everything. I don't give
that everything to just anyone. I save it for those I love most: my
family. Those who have given all, and more than all. That is my
reason, my excuse, my alibi.

A dear friend urged me to consider hospitality, and the kind
gesture of feeding a stranger, or a hungry individual. Not wanting to
be mistaken as selfish, stingy, or steel-hearted, I have thought it
over, but I still do not completely understand those who cook for a
living, or cook for nameless individuals. I want to sit down, and watch
the one I am feeding. Hear the criticisms, hope for contented smiles,
or just know that the one eating my offering has received my expression
of love and affection. It's shy, complex, and immature on my part, but
that is reality. For today. Maybe tomorrow I will awake and decide to
invite friends over for a cooking party, or pursue my chef's
certificate. I do not know what tomorrow holds, but I do clasp one fact
with the core of my mind, and it is this: that nothing I accomplish,
cook, or write is worth anything unless it is an offering for someone I
love.

We all express ourselves in different manners: from behind a
stove, with ink poured into words upon paper, with a listening ear, or
in another fashion. Recently, someone I'm not well acquainted with,
(and incidentally have never cooked for,) had the audacity to inform me
that I am incapable of love, affection, and emotion. Maybe so. But
then again, too, maybe not.

Barefoot Girl

About The Barefoot Girl

I often cook...barefooted. Food is a marvel to me, second only to writing. My invitation to you would consist of sharing in my literary and culinary rambles, along with my continual love for the offerings of the land to both our souls and bodies. Love is a culture that we can establish around the meal table, and within the mind. Welcome to my personal desk and kitchen!